


Better Than Okay

by noodlecatposts



Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Nightmares, Pining, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr request
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22410661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: Feyre wakes up Rhys after a nightmare. Bed-sharing ensues.Anon Tumblr Prompt:you come to my room at 4am, to cuddle?
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612852
Comments: 66
Kudos: 357





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some Feysand Fluff to counteract that Azriel prompt (No regrets.) from earlier! I tried to figure out a way to write this one in canon, but I got nothing. So, here's another roommate pining AU. :)

“Feyre?”

Rhys starts awake at the sight of his roommate hovering in his doorway. He’d fallen asleep that night, nose tucked into a new book; Rhys didn’t even remember drifting off, but the feeling of someone entering the room pulled him from sleep.

He chances a glance at the clock on his nightstand. _4:00_ shines back at him in bright red. It makes Rhys sit up and take a good look at Feyre, which is hard to do in the dark. Something must be wrong; she never comes into his room without permission, is shy about overstepping boundaries after her last living situation.

“Is everything alright?” Rhys asks when Feyre remains quiet. It makes him nervous.

“I,” Feyre pauses. Her voice is so small. It makes his heartache, and his arms burn with the need to reach out and pull her close, tuck her in tight against his body so that Rhys could know, could feel, that she was safe and in his arms.

It was a new instinct of his. It's always been there, he thinks, in the back of his mind, but only recently, had Rhys become aware of it.

“I had a bad dream,” she murmurs, sniffling. “About the accident.”

The car accident that had nearly taken Rhys’s best friend from him. The car accident that’d snuffled out the sparkle in Feyre’s eye. That had corrupted her relationship with Tamlin. That’d blackened all of their souls. Rhys had nightmares about that night, too.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He didn’t. But for Feyre, Rhys would. Would reopen those still healing wounds. Anything for Feyre.

“No,” she says quickly, the words leaving her in a rush. Then Feyre swallows, taking a tentative step in his direction. Rhys pretends not to know why the small action makes his heart flip in his chest, makes his throat go dry, and his pulse race.

“O-okay,” Rhys stutters. He wasn’t sure what else to say to that.

“Could I—” Feyre stops midsentence and shakes her head at whatever silly thought crossed her mind.

“Forget it,” she decides, turning away from Rhys and heading back towards the door.

“Feyre,” Rhys stops his friend’s retreat with just her name. “What is it?”

Because Feyre knows she can ask anything of him, just as Rhys knows, he can do the same. So, it made him wonder, made him curious, about what would be so daunting a request that Feyre would second guess their bargain, decide it was too weird or foolish or too much to ask of him.

Feyre sighs, and Rhys can’t quite make out the long-suffering look she sends his way, but he can imagine it just fine. The downturn of her full lips. The way her freckled forehead would wrinkle just a little. And her eyes—how’d they burn his skin with their exasperation.

“Uh.” Another sigh. “Could I stay in here? Just for tonight,” she adds quickly. Rhys doesn’t need light to know that that blush he likes so much is spreading across her cheeks. “Sorry—that was dumb. Never mind.”

“Sure,” Rhys says before she has the chance to run away.

 _Stay every night_ , he thinks. But that would be too much to say aloud. Too soon. Unexpected.

“You don’t have to, Rhys,” Feyre argues. Of course, she carries an argument after she’s gotten what she asked for. It’s Feyre. He’d expect nothing less. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“I don’t mind,” Rhys reaffirms for her. “Besides, a bargain is a bargain. Now get in before I can change my mind.”

 _Anything_ they’d promised.

Feyre still looks inclined to flee, but then her sock-clad feet rush across the floor, and she hops into his bed. Rhys chuckles at her, holding the comforter out so that she can slide in with him. The sight of her up close, dressed in barely-there shorts and an old, paint-stained shirt, only makes him regret his decision slightly.

They lay there in silence, miles apart from one another. Rhys prays Feyre can’t hear how his heart pounds in his chest, hopes she can’t sense how badly he longs to reach out and tug her close.

“Thank you,” Feyre says after a while. She’s lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Rhys can’t imagine she’s comfortable like that.

“You’re welcome,” he says. It's formal.

Silence.

Then they burst into giggles. Rhys is at last overcome with the need to pull her close. Sleepy and a little delirious, he reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist. They’re an affectionate pair of friends, but here in the quiet of Rhys’s bed, it's different. He can feel it’s different.

“Is this okay?” Rhys’s chin rests on Feyre’s shoulder as their laughter fades. Her body doesn’t go tense in his arms, but Rhys is too neurotic not to make sure.

“Yeah,” she breathes after a painful delay. “Better than okay, I think.”

Rhys presses his face into her shoulder to hide a shy smile, and his heart nearly gives out when she presses a kiss to his hair, laces her fingers in it. Then Feyre turns in his arms, snuggling close to his chest and tucking her face into the crook of his neck. It feels good. Perfect.

They fall asleep like that, arms wrapped around one another and legs entwined.

*

In the morning, Rhys wakes up with Feyre’s hair tickling his nose, and one of her legs slung over his hip. Her face is pressed into his chest, and her arms band around his chest so tightly he almost can’t breathe.

Feyre’s right. It’s _much_ better than okay.

He takes the liberty of texting Mor to cancel his morning. Rhys is too comfortable to move, and he’s the boss, after all. That comes with perks.

 _Why?_ She asks, that nosey cousin of his, but Rhys just tosses the phone away and snuggles deeper into Feyre’s embrace. Last night was some of his best sleep in ages; he’s eager to get some more.

Mostly, Rhys rests his eyes and draws idle patterns into Feyre’s skin. He watches her sleep and memorizes the patterns of freckles on her cheeks. Asleep like this, Rhys can’t make out the worries that haunt Feyre’s waking hours, doesn’t see the wrinkles that line her eyes or the weight she carries on her shoulders.

He’d like for her to look this carefree all of the time.

Her feet tickling his own warn Rhys that his bedmate is returning to the living. She’d slept so long; he was beginning to wonder if Feyre would ever rise. Rhys huffs at the tickling. He’s very ticklish, and Feyre knows it. 

Sleepy, amused eyes smile at him, and Rhys’s heart lurches in his chest. He could get very, very used to this. Easily.

“So, you’re just as wicked in the mornings,” Rhys rumbles. “Noted.”

“Big baby,” Feyre teases. A kiss pressed to his heart nearly stops it. “What do you have planned for the day?”

“Well,” Rhys muses aloud. He has to clear his throat of the emotion lodged in his throat. The nerves. “I was thinking I’d do a lot more of this. What about you?”

He’s nervous, afraid to look at Feyre, but when he does, Rhys is met with an equally shy smile. They don’t know what this all means exactly, but they both know it’s something good.

"Great minds think alike," she says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips.  
> 20\. Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to continue this little fic with a few more prompts. <3

“You are so drunk,” Rhys tells his best friend with a smile. 

Feyre flashes him a smile over her shoulder and continues stomping up the stairs. Her steps are too heavy, a result of her extreme concentration. Rhys follows after his best friend and roommate, dutifully prepared to catch her at a moment’s notice.

The elevator was out in the apartment complex. Rhys and Feyre were only on the second floor, so it wasn’t too bad, but tonight, Feyre was very drunk. And Rhys was entranced. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so drunk before.

“But I beat Cassian,” Feyre reminds him, waving one hand precariously over her head. “That is what matters.”

“I will remind you of that tomorrow,” Rhys says through a smile. “When your moaning about your hangover.”

“If I had it my way,” Feyre purrs sensuously and without warning, “I’d be moaning other things come morning.”

A flash of heat hits Rhys with her words, and he nearly misses his next step, catching the toe of his shoe on the stair. He recovers and laughs, the noise strangled, but Feyre’s too busy walking to notice the effect her words have on him.

They weren’t exactly dating, yet, but they were something, hovering between what they had been and what they would be. Rhys could feel it in the air between them, see it in her smiles, and it all started the night Feyre spent curled up in his bed.

She hadn’t spent another night, yet, but Rhys wanted her to, was a coward and couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Lost in his thoughts, Rhys doesn’t notice when Feyre stops and spins around to face him, struck with some critical thought to share with him. He bumps into her and has to retreat down a few steps to give Feyre space on the staircase. The building is older, and the area is just wide enough for two people to walk side by side.

Standing like this, Feyre is as tall as he is, can look Rhys dead in the eye while he counts all of her freckles.

Rhys swallows under the intensity of her gaze.

Those blue-grey eyes pout at him for a long while–Rhys isn’t sure why– until Feyre can’t keep up the ruse any longer. She smiles brightly, laughing, and wraps her arms around his neck. Rhys’s hands come up to her waist right away, and he grins happily as Feyre pulls him into a warm hug.

Feyre pulls away too quick for his liking. A big smile still plastered on her face. Then her eyes drop to his lips, and those baby blues fill with hunger.

Rhys’s mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips in anticipation. Feyre leans in close, biting her own lip and thinking hard. They’re face to face because of the stairs, and all Rhys can do is gape at her, frozen in wait.

She brushes her nose against his once, a sweet gesture that has Rhys chuckling. Then Feyre locks her lips onto his.

It’s a little weird at first; Rhys has never kissed anyone as tall as him, but the thought evaporates from his mind when she nips at his lip, asking for more.

Rhys is all too eager to comply. She smells like rosemary and tastes like the whiskey she drank with Cassian. He loves it.

They make out in the stairwell until someone clears their throat behind them. Rhys glances over his shoulder to find Ms. Judy, an older tenant and neighbor of theirs frowning at them in disapproval. Judy thinks it’s inappropriate for a boy and girl to live together before they’re married.

Rhys grins at her in apology, leans back against the wall to allow the woman past. Feyre giggles the whole time, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Judy hmphs as she goes by. She shoots Rhys a particularly evil glare. Their neighbor told him once that it was unforgivable to ruin a nice, young girl like Feyre. She hadn’t found it funny when Rhys told Judy he had plans to make an honest woman out of Feyre, didn’t think he was serious.

“Alright, darling,” Rhys tells his favorite person. “Let’s get you home and in bed.”

“Finally,” Feyre sighs. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for ages.”

Rhys wants to be embarrassed, but he’ll leave that to Feyre in the morning. He likes this unfiltered side of her, would like to see it more often. “Is that so?”

Feyre nods eagerly, but she continues up the stairs with his guidance. Rhys trails after her, hands out, and ready to save the day. When they make it back to their apartment, Feyre hands her keys over to Rhys. She knows she’s too drunk to work the door. 

They trudge towards the bedrooms, but Feyre pauses next to his doorway. Rhys knows what she’s going to say before she does.

“Can I stay with you?” Feyre asks, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Your bed smells nice. You smell nice.”

He smiles, “Only because you present such a good argument.”

“I do, don’t I?” She grins widely. “You should listen to me more often.”

They get ready for bed. Rhys has to help Feyre out of the boots that she can’t get off her feet, and he struggles not to blush when she wiggles her eyebrows at him suggestively while he changes his shirt. He could get very used to having this giggling woman in his bed.

“Goodnight, Rhys,” Feyre sighs as they curl up with each other at last. The sight of her in his bed, wearing his shirt, makes his heart flutter. He’s a goner.

“Goodnight, Feyre.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 29\. Staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.   
> 33\. An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just more fluff. <3

Feyre really enjoys being Rhys’s roommate.

He is her best friend, her favorite person; it definitely caught her by surprise the first time Feyre realized it, a stray thought that came to her one day while she watched Rhys rant and rave about the intricacies of some television show he was currently obsessed with. She had no idea what the show was about or what Rhys was trying to explain to her, but Feyre was all too content to sit on the couch and listen to him, watch him mess up his hair explaining the plot, and defend his favorite character—the villain.

Then it just hit her: Feyre loved him. Rhys. Feyre loved Rhys.

In the movies, it was the moment when the main character panics, spirals out of control, and goes through a self-discovery about how much their love interest means to them. Yet, for Feyre, the thought made her warm and fuzzy. She wasn’t worried about loving Rhys. Rhys, whose hair was standing on end while he waved his hands in the air wildly and defended his favorite’s honor.

Because Rhys loved Feyre, too, even if he didn’t realize it yet. They were inevitable. Part of her knew it all along.

—

Feyre wakes up the morning after her drinking victory against Cassian, warm and comfortable. The air smells of jasmine and citrus, and there’s a pair of very firm arms wrapped tightly around her waist, a nose pressed into the crook of her neck—Rhys.

She smiles. Feyre could get very, very used to waking up like this. It took everything in her not to climb back into Rhys’s bed after that first night; they’d laid around all day, cuddling and watching television. Rhys called out of work to stay in with her, and if that didn’t make Feyre feel about ten different kinds of silly and excited, she didn’t know what would.

“Mornin’,” Rhys grumbles into the skin of her neck. It tickles, and Feyre shivers, earning a smile. The way his lips brush against the skin of her neck sets her on fire, and Feyre would really, really like to make out with her roommate.

She gasps, jolting upright in the bed and sending Rhys rolling backward. The man looks stricken, sleepy and confused, too. Feyre turns to him in shock.

“I kissed you!” She hisses, the memory flooding back to her. Right in the stairwell. Drunk and silly—Feyre kissed Rhys. _Really_ kissed, Rhys.

Her roommate wears a dopey, pleased smile, “Yes, you did, darling, and might I say, it was one hell of a kiss at that.”

Rhys’s expression falters, and he sits up too, suddenly looking very concerned, “Are you mad?”

“Am I mad?” Feyre echoes, skeptical. “What about you? Aren’t you mad I drunk-kissed you?”

Rhys’s expression softens, “I will never be mad about kissing you, Feyre.”

The words are so earnest that Feyre gasps again. Rhys reaches out and smoothes her wily hair back from her face with a fond expression, swipes her lips with his thumb as he takes her in. Feyre realizes she probably looks really, really terrible right now. She always has the worst bedhead in the morning, and there’s no way her makeup isn’t a trainwreck—she might still be a little drunk.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, and it makes Feyre want to kiss him again. A lot.

They stare at one another for an impossibly long time, and Feyre’s only thoughts are of how much she loves this man, staring at her like she’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened. It’s a lot to handle so early, and her head is starting to hurt from all the whiskey.

Still, when Rhys begins to lean closer to her, Feyre mirrors him naturally, without thinking. His eyes drop to her lips, and she stifles a breath of anticipation, sits up a little straighter as he draws impossibly close.

At last, Rhys moves to close the distance, but at the last second, Feyre turns her face. His lips collide with her cheek, and her best friend groans, disappointed.

“Did I misunderstand the cue?” He asks, “Because I definitely thought you wanted me to kiss you.”

Feyre sighs, frustrated. “I do, but my mouth tastes bad to _me_. So, ew. Besides, I know my breath is horrible.”

“Darling, you could never taste bad,” he purrs, not missing a beat, and Feyre shudders.

Rhys chuckles, trailing his fingers along her sides. It’s—a lot.

Then, “I have to get up now for work.” He sounds very apologetic.

Feyre sighs, sending him a smile. “If you must.”

Rhys watches her for another long moment; his smile is big when he taps her nose once and tells her to go back to sleep. Feyre laughs lightly but is all too eager to comply with his demands. She could definitely use a good teeth-cleaning and maybe a hundred glasses of water, but for now, Feyre thinks she’ll settle for sleep, getting up just seems too hard.

She dozes, listening to the sounds of Rhys getting ready for the day. When he leaves the room, Feyre burrows more deeply into his bed, sliding into his side where it's still warm from his body and smells strongest of him. She can already tell she’s about to have some great sleep.

A laugh pulls her from the edge of unconsciousness; Rhys sets a glass of water onto the nightstand. She can’t respond to him, not capable of doing such a thing in her semi-conscious state, so she remains still, listening to him. Rhys smoothes the hair back from her face again with reverence, laughs when her nose scrunches up of its own accord.

“Goodnight, Feyre,” Rhys tells her, pressing the lightest of kisses to her lips before leaving.

The gesture is surprising, unexpected, but at the same time, Feyre’s never felt more loved in her life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You're the only one who gets to call me that, you know." (:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little drabble in this AU this time around. Fluffy and sweet. What every Monday needs. (Or Tuesday because I forgot to post it here last night.)
> 
> FYI, I know I owe some updates on my WIPs (INTHAF and Castle of Dreams). I promise they're in progress. We've reached critical points on either of them, and I want to make sure I get it just right!

**It’s a few days later** when Rhys walks out of the bedroom, looking like a ghost. Feyre sends him a shy smile from where she sits at the breakfast table. Her roommate looks handsome this morning. Not that Rhys doesn’t look handsome every morning, but today he’s donned a particularly nice navy suit. She wonders at the occasion.

They’re still dancing around the matter of them, of it, but it’s the good kind of dancing, filled with excitement and little pressure. They’re getting to know whatever this is between them, enjoy it; there’s no rush. Feyre’s not going anywhere, and she knows Rhys isn’t either.

“You look very nice today,” she tells him, smiling. Rhys flashes her a smile, but it’s grim, pained even. Feyre’s stomach turns. “Is everything okay?”

To her surprise, her roommate pouts like one of the children in her kindergarten groups, when they don’t like the color options they’ve been presented with. He says, “Today I have to stand up in front of the other grownups in class and give a speech.”

His voice is so childlike that Feyre can’t stop the laugh that escapes from her. Rhys glowers.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her giggles. “What?”

Rhys fiddles with his cuffs, huffs in agitation, “The other CEOs are coming to Velaris. I have to give a speech.”

What he said suddenly makes more sense, and Feyre’s expression turns soft, considering, “You’re nervous.”

“Darling, I’ve never been nervous a day in my life!” Feyre’s best friend declares with false bravado; she raises an eyebrow at him, watches as Rhys deflates.

“I’m terrified,” he informs her.

“Poor baby, High Lord,” she coos.

It’s the nickname she and Mor coined for him one evening after a few too many glasses of wine. Rhys was complaining about being in charge, and the woman, drunk and sassy, were having none of it.

“Don’t start—”

“—Poor baby High Lord has to go to work today and see all his other High Lord friends,” Feyre continues, and Rhys growls at her. She smiles, “to do all their High Lord things and talk about High Lord stuff and be High Lords in—”

“You really have no idea what it is I do, do you?” Rhys says, fond exasperation evident in his gaze. But he’s smiling, and Feyre thinks that’s an improvement.

Feyre bites her lip to tamper her smile, shaking her head no. Rhys’s eyes immediately drop to her lips, eyes dark and hungry. It makes her throat go dry.

“I’ll have you know,” he tells her, voice low, “that my job is very complicated, and I’m under enough stress without you picking on me, you wicked creature.”

Feyre stares at his violet eyes for a long moment.

“Poor baby High Lord,” she starts again, and Rhys groans, slapping his hands on the counter in outrage.

“Evil, wicked—”

“—with all his High Lord responsibilities—”

“—I can’t believe I agreed to let you live here—”

“—and stressful High Lord life—”

“—I ought to make you go live with Morrigan—"

“—and his High lord speeches—”

“—But I’d miss the shit out of you,” Rhys finishes; Feyre’s taunting falters. Her mind goes blank, and she blushes furiously. Rhys’s eyes burning with an unreadable expression.

“You’ll do great today,” Feyre swears, and Rhys’s face turns soft, boyish.

“You think so?” It’s a new side to Rhys, this vulnerability, this depending on Feyre for support and validation. She has zero intentions to ever let him down, allow him to feel anything less than completely worthy.

“Of course.” But that doesn’t mean she won’t give him hell. Feyre’s eyes sparkle with mirth. “Not get out there and show those other lame High Lords who the best, most powerful High Lord of them all is.”

Rhys for once doesn’t fuss at her for the name. His smile is dopey.

“You’re the only one who gets to call me that you know,” Rhys says, softly.

“What?”

“The High Lord thing,” Rhys confesses. “I told Mor that if she used the name anymore, I’d fire her, but sadly, I don’t have that kind of leverage against you.”

Feyre grins, “Except kicking me out, apparently.”

“Like I could ever,” Rhys tells her, reaching across the counter to brush at her cheek.

-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose.  
> 44\. Tentative kisses given in the dark.

Rhys is a little confused when he returns to the apartment from the gym to find Feyre curled up on the couch. It’s Friday, and while Rhys often sneaks his way out on Fridays around midday, Feyre teaches at an elementary school. She doesn’t have that kind of privilege — something she often holds against him.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, darling,” Rhys says, and Feyre peeks up at him over her sketchpad and smiles the kind of smile that makes his heart skip a beat, “but aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Why?” Feyre smirks, “Are you planning to have your secret girlfriend over? Should I leave and give you two some alone time?”

Rhys loves sassy Feyre. It’s one of his favorite Feyre’s. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure Cassian wouldn’t be against being watched.”

His grin makes his face hurt as Rhys watches his roommate break out into laughter, her head thrown back and hair cascading around her shoulders. She’s too damn beautiful. It makes his bones ache with want.

“Kinky,” Feyre tells him, eyes sparkling.

Rhys takes the empty seat on the couch beside her instead of responding. Feyre immediately spreads her legs out and onto his lap; Rhys wraps his fingers around her calves, tracing circles into the fabric of her leggings.

“But really,” he asks after a few moments of companionable silence. “Are you alright? What’s got you home so early?”

Feyre leans her face against the back of the couch so that one side of it disappears into the cushion; she watches him fondly. “Have you checked the news, Mr. Boss Man? It’s supposed to snow today—like, really, snow.”

Rhys snorts at her ineloquence.

His roommate eyes him critically, “Aren’t you in charge of people? Their safety and whatnot?”

A scoff. “That’s the rumor anyway.”

“You’re telling me that you’re making all of your employees go to work in this blizzard?” Feyre tries to kick him, but Rhys grips her by the ankle and prevents the attack. “Evil High Lord.”

Rhys rolls his eyes. “Blizzards and employee safety both fall under Mor’s jurisdiction.”

“She _is_ far better with people than you,” Feyre tells him with a smirk.

“Hey,” Rhys defends himself. “I’m very personable.”

“Well, personable High Lord,” Feyre transitions, and Rhys arches a brow at her, watching her turn the situation in her favor. He already knows exactly what she’s going to say, but sometimes he pretends otherwise. “Why don’t you go shower, and I’ll find us a movie? I stocked our kitchen this morning—the Archeron-Knight residence is prepared for a snow-in.”

He raises a brow, “Darling, are you trying to tell me I’m gross?”

A dangerous smile. “Not at all. I like you sweaty.”

Feyre hops from the couch and leaves the room without a care for the way she’s knocked the sense from Rhys with a few words. His skin suddenly feels too tight, too hot, for his body, and he’s not wearing the right kind of pants to get all worked up over Feyre’s innuendos.

He flees for the bathroom before Feyre can return and submits himself to the coldest shower he can muster.

-

Feyre and Rhys settle into the living room together with popcorn and beer. Rhys did text his family to invite them over, but the responses were less than stellar—or supportive.

 _Feyre and I are hosting a movie night,_ Rhys typed into the group text—minus Feyre.

 _Dude, just bang her already,_ was Mor’s utterly insensitive response.

Cassian’s was also crude, a combination of emojis that Rhys really didn’t want to decode.

 _I would hate to interrupt,_ Azriel, the subtle one, said.

Amren’s response was perhaps Rhys’s favorite: _Not interested._

“None of them are coming?” Feyre asks, surprised, and a little disappointed. Everyone lives have been so busy lately. They’ve seen less of each other than usual.

“Apparently, not,” Rhys says, shutting off his phone at the sight of the many intrusive messages flooding his inbox. He knows they’re trying to pep-talk him, that they love him and want him to be happy, but he wishes they would just back off sometimes. Especially over this.

Feyre eyes him curiously. She can see through him so easily; she’s probably sensed something has gotten under his skin, but Feyre won’t ask him, won’t pry. She’ll let Rhys tell her when he’s ready, as long as it doesn’t seem too serious.

He cracks a feline grin, attempting to ease her worries and lighten his mood. “It’s just you and me, darling.”

Rhys expects an eye roll or a scoff; it’s what she’d usually respond with. So, he’s not prepared for the delicate smile Feyre aims his way, and his heart fumbles when she tells him, “Sounds perfect.”

—

Near the end of the movie, Feyre has nestled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his middle. Rhys really hopes the way his heart races isn’t too apparent to her. That’d be embarrassing.

Rhys runs his fingers through her long golden-brown hair, and Feyre hums happily, sleepily. He thinks his best friend is a goner, is going to fall asleep before the end and tells her as much.

“Not sleeping,” she mumbles defensively without opening an eye. “Just comfortable.”

Rhys’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he knows Feyre can definitely hear its quick pace. There’s no way she can’t if he can listen to it in his own ears. “If you say so,” he tells her, continuing to play with her hair.

Feyre sighs happily, and Rhys thinks he could get very, very used to this.

He needs to ask her out—is dying too. The words are ever poised on the tip of his tongue, burning his lips, but Rhys is also a coward. _Poor baby High Lord_ , Feyre would tease, and she isn’t wrong. If he can waltz into boardrooms and haggle improved benefits and wages for his employees—bloody sharks, the lot of them. It’s called _human decency_ —then Rhys should definitely be able to ask his roommate out for a date.

It’s not like he isn’t positive she’ll say yes.

“Hey, Feyre,” Rhys says softly, testing to see if she’s still awake.

“Hmmm,” she responds without opening her eyes.

“I have a question.”

“You are a question,” she tells him without missing a beat.

Rhys laughs freely, brushes the hair out of her face. “I’m not sure what that means.”

“What’s up?” Feyre asks, leaning away from him and stretching her arms above her head. Rhys feels cold without her pressed close to his side, wants nothing more than to tug her back into his arms.

“I was wondering,” he begins, meeting those stormy eyes of hers. “If—”

The world goes black at just that moment; what little light there was in the apartment disappears, and the television goes dark. Feyre gasps, and Rhys sighs. This always happens. Every time.

“We need to move to a different power grid,” Feyre tells him with a smile. “Your fancy apartment is no good in the dark.”

Rhys laughs, “Oh, it’s _my_ fancy apartment now, is it?”

“Yep.”

“So...” Rhys trails off, too cowardly to return back to his earlier question. “What do you want to do now?”

Feyre is silent for a little while, but when she speaks, her voice is tentative, “Can we go back to what we were doing before?”

He’s confused. They can’t watch the movie anymore because the power is out. Rhys feels a little silly when he realizes that Feyre was referring to the cuddling. His heart warms.

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” he tells her, voice shy as well.

Rhys and Feyre curl up onto the couch. His feet hang off one end, but if it means getting to hold Feyre for the evening, he’ll suffer in blissful agony. He can’t see her face, but Rhys can tell that Feyre is nervous too by the way she laughs a little climbing across him to settle in his embrace.

“Sorry,” she tells him.

Rhys smiles, even though she probably can’t see it. “I don’t mind.”

-

The silence is comfortable, and Rhys’s eyes start to grow heavy, lulled to sleep by the sound of Feyre’s breathing and the warmth of her body against his. He leans over to press a kiss to the top of her head, and she giggles, the sound light and happy. This is nice; Rhys could get very used to this.

Feyre moves beside him, leaning on her elbow to reach his face. Rhys sucks in a breath in surprise, anticipation, when she presses a kiss to his jaw and then one to his cheek. The corner of his mouth.

Rhys likes to think he’s a pretty confident guy. He dates, does well with women—or he used to before Feyre came blazing into his life like a meteor—but with Feyre, Rhys feels like he’s fourteen again, trying to convince Sera from his science class to go to the spring dance with him.

And Feyre makes Rhys way more nervous than Sera ever did. 

Rhys stays as still as he can when Feyre brushes her lips against his. The dim light of the candle allows him to make out the little crease between Feyre’s brow as she considers. Rhys reaches out to smooth it away instinctively, and she smiles at the affirmation, leans back in for more.

They share soft kisses in the dark for a while. Rhys reaches up and threads his fingers through her long hair, and Feyre rests the hand, not propping her up, on his chest.

“You’re a good kisser,” he says into the quiet, lips still against hers.

Feyre’s laugh is a little breathless. It makes his stomach do funny things. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rhys confirms and swipes his tongue into her mouth. Their kissing grows more intense, and Feyre hums as she slides onto his lap, cupping his face with her hands and straddling his lap.

Feyre breaks away suddenly, asking, “Is this okay?”

“Very okay,” he tells her, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. “Better than okay.”

Feyre’s laugh is soft and sweet; she tugs him back into another kiss. Rhys can feel her fighting a smile as they make out, and he’s slightly inclined to join her, a grin tugging at his own mouth. The kisses turn messy.

Then Feyre tugs him closer, and Rhys obliges, moving to sit upright and slide his hands down her back to her waist, memorizing the feeling of her curves under his hands. He grips her hips lightly, afraid to take too much too fast, but little desperate sound escapes Feyre at the feeling. Rhys moves to catch her lips once more, but she starts to move her mouth down his neck before he can.

Rhys groans, a low and throaty sound that seems to encourage Feyre's exploration. Feyre continues her worship of his skin, kissing and nipping at his throat. The crook of his neck. The little bit of skin she manages to reveal by tugging his collar to the side, lighting his skin on fire. Rhys drops his head to the couch, eyes closed, a little high from it all. He’s not in control of the sounds Feyre is coaxing from him.

“Rhys,” she mutters into his skin, a hand on his cheek to bring him back to the present. Rhys can feel that his smile is a little silly when Feyre kisses the tip of his nose, and he’s quick to lock her into a deep and promising kiss in return. His skin feels too tight again, and the way Feyre arches into his embrace, pressing their chests together, has Rhys’s blood rushing to his groin.

“Feyre,” he moans. Rhys’s thoughts have wholly turned from asking her out to getting her into his room, into his bed where he can kiss her better. She hums.

Suddenly, the room comes to life, shocking the couple; they tear apart as the power comes on. Rhys’s eyes burn from the sudden onslaught of light, and his ears bleed when the television blasts a commercial, the volume having been turned up much louder for the movie that was playing before.

Feyre laughs a bright and surprising sound that warms a different part of Rhys. He smiles fondly and brushes the curtain of her hair back from their faces. Her lips are swollen from kissing him, but Feyre's eyes shine with happiness.

He sees the moment she realizes the position they’re in, the moment the mood passes, and she becomes shy. Feyre blushes prettily and bites her lip, a motion Rhys is incapable of not tracking. He pulls her lip free of her teeth with a thumb and resists the pull he feels to pull her down for another kissing session.

The moment’s passed; although, he’d very much like to bring it back. Yet, there’s something else he has to do.

“Feyre. Darling.” Rhys brushes her cheek and looks into her shy eyes. He smiles at the amazing woman in his arms and suddenly feels a lot less nervous. “How would you like to go on a date with me?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Wait you were serious about that date? You want to date me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. <3

Rhys is going on a date with Feyre tonight.

The man wakes up positively giddy with the thought. A fool in love, his mother would have called him were she around to see him. Rhys’s mother would have loved Feyre; he likes to think that in another, kinder lifetime, the two women would have been thick as thieves, ganging up on him at every opportunity.

“Good morning,” Feyre chirps from her perch beside the coffee pot. Rhys can always count on finding Feyre there during the workweek, waiting patiently for her coffee. She claimed she needed the drink if she was going to be able to handle children all day, but Rhys knew better than anyone that the woman was just addicted.

“Morning darling,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Feyre smiles gently at him, pouring the coffee into two cups and handing one to him.

Unbearably domestic, his cousin called them. Rhys had to disagree; he thought they were perfectly tolerable.

“So,” Rhys hedges because he can’t help himself. “Are you excited for our date tonight?”

“Wait,” Feyre’s face goes pale. “You were serious about that date?”

Rhys’s heart goes still.

“You really want to date me?” she exclaims, panic marring her brow.

“I, uh,” Rhys stammers. There’s no way to recover from this. Clearly, the man has made some grave miscalculation, and now things will—

Feyre cackles. The sound startles him. Rhys finds his best friend and soon to be former roommate grinning slyly at him.

He glares at her, “That was not nice.”

“But it was hilarious,” Feyre’s words are warm with amusement.

“Wicked creature,” Rhys tells her. “Find someone else to take you to dinner. I’m too busy tonight, nursing my pride. It may never recover.”

“Poor baby High lord,” she coos.

They drink their coffee in silence. Rhys pouts into his coffee cup, and Feyre taps away at her phone, still giggling at herself. She’s likely recounting the whole terrible experience to his cousin, sharing his humiliation with the family.

They leave the apartment at the same time, and Rhys makes a show of ignoring her down the flight of stairs, teasing. Feyre giggles, trotting after him and into the morning light. She’s finding far too much enjoyment in this, Rhys thinks.

“Rhys, wait!” She calls after him as he turns to head towards his office. Rhys turns around with a raised eyebrow, and Feyre smiles, closing the distance between them with ease. With her hands on his waist, Feyre pulls him in close, biting her lip.

“I’m very excited about our date tonight,” she tells him, blushing. “I hope you won’t stand me up.”

He wants to say something smart, but Rhys is hopeless. “Not at all. Be ready by 6:30. I’ve made a reservation.”

Feyre smiles up at him, “Great. I’ll see you at 7ish.”

She’s notoriously late for everything. Especially work—like now.

Rhys presses a quick kiss to her lips and sends Feyre on her way. She’s his best friend, and Rhys learned his lesson a long time ago. The reservation isn’t until 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a prequel for this per request as well. It should be up shortly and is titled "I'm Here."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please, stop smiling at me like that. I’m not sure what will happen if you keep doing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tiniest of updates...

Rhys is unsurprised when Feyre takes longer to get ready than she anticipated.

He's lived with her long enough to have learned her ways, and Rhys has known her far longer than that. She and Mor are late to everything on their own; if one put the pair together to get ready for something, they should probably go own without them.

Rhys doesn't mind, though. While Feyre gets ready, Rhys curls up on the couch, listening to her. He got ready as soon as he made it home after work, and Rhys left work early because his family wouldn't stop picking on him for how nervous he was. So, Rhys has been waiting a while for his date, but that's okay.

Feyre sings in the bathroom while she gets ready, even though there isn't any music; Rhys smiles at the sound, barking a laugh when he hears her knock something over and she swears like a sailor.

He loves this woman; he'll wait as long as she needed to get ready.

"I just have to get my shoes from my closet," Feyre calls from the hall well after the 7ish time she promised. "I'm almost ready—I promise!"

Rhys laughs fondly, and he doesn't complain. Instead, Rhys uses the opportunity to fetch the flowers he got her, hidden away in a top cabinet where his short roommate would never look. Then the man slips outside the apartment and waits.

More muffled curses come from Feyre. It's easy for Rhys to imagine her tripping her way down the hallway, bouncing on one foot to get a shoe on. It makes him grin. A moment later, he hears her call out for him, but Rhys can't make out what she says on the other side of the door. When Feyre's voice draws near, Rhys knocks.

Rhys is a romantic bastard, and if his family finds out about this move, they'll mock him for eternity. The look Rhys is hoping the gesture will earn makes the potential judgment of his family worth it.

He can feel Judy's prying eyes on him from the other side of the hallway. Rhys looks in her direction and shoots her a wink. The mysterious woman hmphs and disappears back behind her door; Rhys laughs.

His laughter fades when he catches sight of Feyre. She's marvelous, dressed in navy cocktail dress and hair pressed into perfect curls. Rhys knows he's gaping like a fool, but he can't stop himself.

"Quit smiling at me like that," Feyre grumbles. The fond annoyed look Rhys was hoping for shines from her eyes. "I'm not sure what will happen if you keep looking at me like that."

Her cheeks flush when she notices the flowers he holds, and Rhys offers her the flowers in his hands. "Sounds pretty promising to me," he purrs.

Feyre rolls her eyes but accepts the gift. "Are you sure you don't want to save those for someone more punctual?" Feyre asks with a wry smile. She glances at the clock in the living, "I've missed the reservation, haven't I?"

"Nope," Rhys tells her with a big fat smile. "You're right on time."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re so annoying. Oh my God– I love you so much.”   
> “STOP BEING SO CUTE, IT’S NOT FAIR!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date.

Rhys was trying very hard to impress Feyre.

It was easy for her to tell, and she'd expected the man to make a fuss about their date. Their first date. Still, Feyre is surprised when Rhys leads her inside a fancy downtown bistro, one perched on along the Sidra. It's large windows boast the view of the sparkling waters, stunning under the full moon. 

Rhys and Feyre didn't usually go to places like this together; although, she knew that Rhys frequented them with Mor. For work, too. On the other hand, Feyre never went to places this fancy on her own, and it'd been a very long time since someone brought her to one. Another lifetime ago.

It wasn't really Feyre's cup of tea, but the gesture was sweet. Feyre was going to enjoy herself either way; she was there with Rhys.

"I don't know what to order," Feyre confesses as they wait. The menu is vast, and most of it appears to be in another language. Feyre barely has English mastered somedays. She can't read this menu. "There's... so much to pick from."

"I already ordered for us," Rhys admits with a shy look.

"Oh, okay then." While surprised, Feyre isn't bothered by this news. It saves her from having to have Rhys walk her through the menu.

Rhys smiles, but the gesture is nervous. Feyre reaches across the table to play with his fingers.

"You have to order in advance to have the six-course meal," he tells her.

"Six courses?" Feyre blurts before she can stop herself. An older couple sitting beside them scowls in her direction.

She flushes. "Sorry, I just mean—that's a lot of food, Rhys."

"They're small portions," Rhys comes to a realization. "Shit. I should have asked you first. I didn't consider—"

"No, it's fine," Feyre stops him. "I don't mind. Thank you for making such a fuss for me."

Rhys looks embarrassed but pleased by the thanks. "Someone should always fuss about you, darling."

-

Dinner is a disaster, Feyre thinks, forcing a polite smile on her face as the server presents another indecipherable course to them. Everything in this restaurant is served in two-bite portions, disguised in little neat minced up piles. The wine could drink before Feyre was born. The cheese, too. 

It's definitely not the first date Feyre always imagined with Rhys; she always pictured them going to Rita's, having a beer, and eating too many wings. Yet, Feyre appreciates the fuss. Rhys tried so hard to make the evening special. But is this what Rhys expects of their relationship going forward?

As in everything, Rhys takes to the situation with ease. Feyre finds him unbearably sophisticated during his interactions with the snooty waiter. She watches as her date compliments the year of the wine and is surprised when he comments to the water that something could use "just a splash" more citrus. Feyre didn't think you were supposed to do that.

But what is truly terrible is how Rhys keeps asking Feyre's opinion of the food, trying to share the experience with her. Feyre has no idea what she's eating, no idea what it should taste like, but she trusts Rhys and follows his lead.

"You'll love this one, Feyre," Rhys purrs as the waiter sets something down in front of them that looks like mush. "It's my favorite."

"Awesome," she tells him, smiling as best as she can manage. 

No pressure, she thinks, as she takes a little bit of the food onto her fork. To her horror, Rhys eats the little bit of food in one go with a happy smile. Feyre steels herself. Nothing about this food looks appetizing to her, but Rhys is smiling happily like it's the best thing he's ever eaten. It can't be that bad, right?

Wrong. Feyre gags as soon as the morsel of food hits her tongue. Her eyes water as she coughs, and Feyre has to work very hard not to spit the food back onto the costly plate. That older couple sends her a judgemental gaze. They're not wrong; she doesn't belong here.

Rhys looks crestfallen. Feyre realizes she said the words out loud, and she pales. Fuck, she didn't mean to do that. She didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"You hate every second of this, don't you?" Rhys asks quietly. His face is guarded, voice too even to make out what he's feeling.

Feyre stammers, "What? No—Rhys, I'm—"

His smile is weak. "It's okay, Feyre. I should have realized this was overkill."

Feyre flushes to the tips of her hears; she stares down at the table in shame. She's ruined it, ruined their date. Rhys looks so disappointed.

"Alright," he says, tossing his napkin onto the table in a flourish and surprising her. He stands up. "Let's get out of here."

"What?" Feyre yelps.

Rhys is at her side, tugging on her elbow to get her to stand. Feyre complies, and the older couple glares at the fuss they're making. Rhys winks at them.

"But you have to pick where we're eating," Rhys tells her in a light voice, helping Feyre shrug on her coat. "Cause I've already planned us one miserable dinner, and I'd rather not fail twice this evening."

"Don't we need to pay, still?" Feyre stutters, dizzy. This was not the turn she expected.

Rhys's smile is disarming if a little self-deprecating. "I paid in advance—now let's make a run for it before they bring out the next course. If I remember correctly, it's lamb's tongue."

Feyre bolts for the door and Rhys is right on her heels, laughing.

-

"Hmm," Feyre attempts a purr in a mockingly deep voice. She holds out the paper bag of fries with a frown, jiggles them precariously. "The presentation could use some more work. The paper bag is so unoriginal."

Rhys makes an insulting noise and shoves at her shoulder lightly. "You're so annoying."

Feyre laughs brightly before taking a bite out of her burger. She moans at the taste — real food at last.

"Oh, that's good," Feyre says. She makes an obnoxious noise with her tongue, like one would when they sample wine. Rhys scoffs at her. "However, the bread could definitely be soggier, and the ketchup tastes far too strongly of... ketchup."

"Stop being so cute," her date complains, laughing despite himself, "it's not fair. I can't be properly mad at you when you're so cute."

Feyre wiggles her eyebrows and munches on a french fry. She gasps, holding the fry out to take a better look at it. Her voice is reverent as she examines it, "Made in 2020—what a good year."

"I'm never taking you anywhere, again. You're such a brat!" Rhys cries in outrage. 

"Not as good as potatoes harvested in 2019," Feyre tells him with a grin, "but a suitable substitute."

He throws his hands into the air, " _Oh my god—"_

"Would you like to try a bit, _darling?"_ Feyre offers him the fry, but Rhys is still ranting.

"—I love you so much."

Feyre's heart stops, and her mind forgets all about making fun of food-critic Rhys. Her date turns ashen; Feyre isn't sure he's breathing.

"You love me?" She whispers.

Rhys looks inclined to run away. Those violet eyes shine with guilt. "Depends... are you freaking out right now?"

"Kind of," Feyre admits. "But it's the good kind of freak out, I think."

Rhys looks surprised. "Really?"

"C'mon, Rhys," Feyre smiles at him. "How long have we known each other? You don't go into this—dating your favorite person in the world without _knowing_."

"I'm your favorite person?" Rhys's voice is small.

"Of course you are," Feyre rolls her eyes.

"Even though I ruined our first date?"

" _Because_ you ruined our first date," Feyre leans over and kisses his cheek. "I love that you tried so hard to impress me, despite knowing what I look like in the morning."

Rhys's laugh is incredulous. "You look beautiful in the mornings—you always look beautiful."

"Remember that when I'm still picking on you for this in twenty years," Feyre teases. She bites down on her burger again, trying to smile and eat at the same time.

Rhys smiles softly, "I'm sure you'll remind me."


	9. Chapter 9

Rhys and Feyre head home from their date in blissful silence. At least once Feyre finishes making fun of him.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asks, realizing he missed whatever Feyre was saying, even though he was staring at her. His grin is sly. "I keep getting lost in your eyes."

Feyre rolls her eyes, but there's no mistaking the way her lips twitch. "I said: the elevator is out again."

"We need to move," Rhys tells her. She laughs.

The hike up the stairs is filled with shy smiles and small laughs; Rhys tugs her close to his side and kisses the top of her head. Even if he messed up dinner, the night was perfect–it was them.

“Here, let me,” Rhys tells Feyre, saving her from digging in her purse for her keys. She smiles guiltily; they both know it’ll be quicker if Rhys just pulls his keys out of his pocket.

“After you,” he says as he opens the door with a flourish. Feyre rolls her eyes at him, but she smiles.

Inside they both linger in the living room. It’s late, and they should both probably head off to bed to get some sleep for work tomorrow. Yet, Rhys just really wants to kiss Feyre.

The way she eyes his mouth tells Rhys she’s thinking something similar; he can tell his smile is wide, as he closes the distance between them and takes her face in his hands. Feyre leans in readily, wrapping her arms around his middle so that she can pull him that much closer. Their mouths meet on their own.

The kiss is fantastic. Rhys’s fingers thread into Feyre’s hair, and he groans at the feeling of Feyre’s hands dragging across the expanse of his back. She whimpers when he pulls away, and Rhys’s mouth returns to hers before Feyre even opens her eyes.

“Rhys,” she sighs as he trails his lips down the column of her throat. Feyre sucks in a little breath when Rhys’s tongue swipes over her pulse point that he’s going to remember forever.

“Rhys,” Feyre repeats. The man in question lifts his mouth back up to hers, and Feyre meets him with abandon for another heady kiss. She pulls away too soon for his liking, brushing his hair out of his face with an apologetic smile.

He knows that look. The one that says they’ve met her limit. Feyre isn’t ready to let Rhys back her down the hallway, to lay her down on his bed, and worship her for the remainder of the night. Though, he’d really like to do so.

So, he presses another kiss to her lips; this one chaste and sweet. Feyre giggles, he thinks from a little awkwardness. So, Rhys kisses her forehead in reassurance, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her down the hallway.

Her doorway is first, and that’s where they stop. Feyre eyes him curiously, but Rhys just grins back at her.

“I’m dropping you off after our date,” he explains. It causes Feyre to burst into laughter. She swats him lightly on the arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” Feyre tells him, eyes crinkling with amusement. “We live in the same apartment. It’s not like you aren't going to find me at the coffee pot in the morning.”

Rhys raises a brow, “Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Feyre. 5:30 sharp. At the coffee pot.”

He turns to leave, to head towards his own room, but Feyre catches his wrist. The look in her eyes makes him a little dizzy. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

Rhys does just that, but they’re both smiling too much to make it really count. Instead, he bumps his nose with hers, and Feyre giggles. He cherishes that sound more than anything else, Rhys thinks.

“Goodnight, Rhys,” she tells him once her laughter in under control.

Rhys smiles. “Goodnight, Feyre.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh. You're jealous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a minute to write something easy while I work through the monster of a last chapter that will be Castle of Dreams. Enjoy!

Feyre makes a new friend at work.

Rhys is happy to find out about it, to listen to his girlfriend talk excitedly about the new companion she’s met. He knows how hard it’s been for her to make friends, how small her circle has been since beginning her year teaching at Prythian. Feyre often complains about the difficulty of making friends with an already tight-knit group of people. Indeed, Rhys was surprised to learn how catty teachers could be; they were the people responsible for shaping society’s youth for Cauldron’s sake.

So, when Feyre meets Tarquin, Rhys is happy for her.

Rhys is also inexplicably jealous.

◈

“Don’t forget that I’ll be home late Friday,” Feyre tells him as they work in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She kisses his cheek as she hands him the chopped vegetables, and Rhys thinks that this is what people refer to when they call something domestic bliss.

“Are you excited?” He asks, but he already knows the answer.

Feyre fucking _beams_ at him, and Rhys’s heart flips in his chest. She’s too fucking cute for him to handle. He’s going to burn the food watching the way her freckled nose crinkles in excitement as she thinks about the upcoming field trip.

“Way more than I should be,” she admits, “considering I go every year on my own time.”

Rhys presses a kiss to her lips, chaste and sweet. He’s definitely going to ruin dinner, getting distracted by her.

“You love it,” Rhys tells her. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah, and it’ll be Tarquin’s first time going. So, that’ll be fun. I can show him around while the kids are distracted,” Feyre’s eyes twinkle with mischief. Rhys tries very hard to ignore the weight in his chest, ignoring the foolish frustration he feels at learning that the bane of his existence is going to spend the whole day with his girlfriend.

“I didn’t know Tarquin was going with you,” Rhys says nonchalantly. He thinks he does a pretty good job of playing cool, and Feyre doesn’t react, so he must have pulled it off.

“Yeah, I needed another chaperone to keep the adult-kid ratio right, and at first, no one wanted to go to the boring museum with me and a bunch of kids,” Feyre pouts. “Tarquin stepped up at the last second. He saved the day!”

Rhys feels very childish when he says, “Well, that’s… nice of him.”

◈

The day of the trip, Rhys picks Feyre up from the elementary school because it’s late, and he misses her. It’s definitely not because he wants to size up the man who’s stolen his girlfriend’s affections. It’s definitely not because he’s jealous. Feyre loves him—even if she hasn’t said it yet.

He feels pretty silly, standing with the waiting parents. A few ask him who he’s waiting on, trying to strike up a conversation with the new parent they don’t recognize. Each time he flushes, saying, “Ms. Archeron.”

The smirks he gets in response only make him feel sillier, but Feyre’s surprised expression makes up for the mild embarrassment.

His girlfriend is the first to hop off the bus. She flashes him a quick smile before turning toward the bus to count the little heads marching off of the bus; a man with vivid blue eyes and rich dark skin brings up the rear. Rhys assumes he’s Tarquin.

“Hey,” Feyre greets him with a shy smile and a quick, chaste peck on the cheek. Rhys may or may not rejoice at the way Tarquin’s expression falls, a carefully neutral expression taking the place of the disappointment.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Feyre tells him. “Did you miss me?”

“Every second away from you is one too many,” Rhys tells her with a dramatic tone. Feyre rolls her eyes at him, but she has to bite her lip to hide her smile. Rhys counts it as a victory. Then he teases, “The apartment is far too quiet without you there banging things around.”

Feyre smacks him lightly. “I’m going to go check in with the parents. You stay here and behave.”

“Yes, Ms. Archeron,” he sing-songs. Feyre plays at being annoyed, but she leaves him and makes her rounds with the kids.

◈

It’s late, and the parents are eager to take their tired children home after a long day; so, it isn’t long until Feyre is tucking herself into his side and introducing Rhys to Tarquin. The other man gives Rhys a polite smile, and they shake hands. Rhys hasn’t done anything, and yet, he’s feeling very accomplished. Feyre would be furious with him if she knew what a petty male he was being.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Rhys says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You as well,” Tarquin says. He takes another look at them and then shrugs. “Well, I suppose its time to head home. See you Monday, Feyre.”

“Bye!” she calls after his retreating figure. Feyre allows Rhys to lead her away from the school. She leans into him happily, recounting her day with the kids–and Tarquin.

“It sounds like you and _Tar_ had a lot of fun,” Rhys places an unnecessary emphasis on the nickname that Feyre has coined for her friend. He’s ridiculous. He knows he’s ridiculous, but Rhys can’t seem to stop himself.

“Oh,” Feyre says, coming to a realization. Her footsteps pause. When Rhys glances at her, he realizes that he’s failed in his attempt to sound unbothered. Feyre’s eyes sparkle with mischief again. “You’re jealous.”

Rhys laughs, and he sounds very defensive when he says, “No, I’m not.”

Feyre grins, “You so are! Rhys, does my friendship with Tarquin bother you?”

“No,” he huffs. Feyre raises a brow in challenge. Rhys sighs in defeat.

“Rhys,” she breathes his name. Her tone is fond at least, and not totally pissed off like he was worried she’d be. “You have nothing to be jealous about.”

“It’s just—you talk about Tarquin often. A lot.”

Feyre’s grinning when she pulls him close for a hug. It’s hard for Rhys to keep pouting as his girlfriend presses her face into his chest and squeezes his ribs so tightly they might break. When she leans back, Feyre kisses him.

She smiles, “I talk about you a lot, too. Just so you know.”

“Yeah?” Rhys grins. “Like how much?”

“Too much,” Feyre admits. “Alis was completely unimpressed when I told her my hot roommate asked me on a date.”

“You think I’m hot?” Rhys preens.

Feyre laughs, “So hot.”

“Hotter than Tarquin?” He asks because he can’t help himself. Feyre looks thoughtful, and Rhys’s face falls in dismay.

“I guess so,” she says, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Wicked creature,” Rhys growls.

Feyre loses the battle with her smile, “Poor jealous High Lord.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s three in the morning.” “I know, but I miss you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated this on Tumblr last night, and then promptly passed out without posting here. Short and sweet! It was a late night drabble for me. :)

Rhys’s door creaks when it opens.

The sound causes him to jolt awake, fear seizes his muscles and bones. It takes Rhys a moment to recover from the shock, but by the time his heart manages to reset itself, Feyre is at his side, sweeping back his hair and apologizing in a soft whisper.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Feyre coos, running her hand down his back. Rhys relaxes at the sound of her voice and her touch. It’s only Feyre; he’ll get to live another day. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Feyre,” he groans, dropping his face back into his pillow. “It’s three in the morning.”

Feyre chuckles softly. Rhys forgives her the moment her fingers lace in his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way that makes him practically purr. “I know, but I miss you.”

“You’ll miss me more if you kill me,” he groans. She laughs.

Rhys rolls over to look at her, smiling softly. The light from the city illuminates the room enough for him to be able to catch the way Feyre’s eyes ghost over his chest, trailing the tattoos there. She ducks her head when she realizes he’s noticed her attention.

“Did you have another bad dream?” Rhys asks, concerned. It’s been a while, but those things have a way of coming back to someone when they least expect it.

“No,” Feyre flashes him a guilty look. “We missed each other this evening, and I… wanted to see you.”

Rhys’s chest floods with warmth. He’d gone out with his brothers for a hang out that was far overdue, but the men stayed out far past a teacher’s bedtime. Feyre was already tucked away in her room for the evening when Rhys returned. 

Rhys can’t win against the smile that earns. He opens his arms wide, and Feyre beams, snuggling into his embrace quickly. She rests her head on his chest, nuzzling against his skin as she gets comfortable. Feyre fits into his arms just right. 

“Were you just going to sneak in here and stare at me, darling?” Rhys asks after a few minutes of comfortable silence. He senses Feyre’s eye roll more than he sees it in their current position.

“No, uh,” Feyre huffs a little. “I was going to just sneak into your bed.”

“Quite the gamble,” he teases. “What if I don’t want to share my bed?”

Feyre stiffens for a second, realizes he’s teasing and smacks him lightly on the chest. Rhys catches the offending hand and kisses it once.

“It was a risk I was willing to take,” she tells him, pressing her smile into his chest, just above his heart. Rhys is certain she can hear the way it pounds in his ribcage, elated at having her near.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he tells her, voice soft. Rhys tugs her just a little closer, closing his eyes and listening to her breathing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come to bed." "Make me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter contains nsfw content.**

Feyre bursts into Rhys’s room without knocking.

Belatedly she realizes that could be both a very awkward and embarrassing decision—to charge into her boyfriend’s room without announcing herself. Feyre could walk in on Rhys half-naked or wholly naked or find her boyfriend in the middle of doing something guys usually do with the door closed.

She flushes at the idea and pushes it aside quickly. Feyre came here on a mission.

Sure enough, Rhys is sprawled across his bed. He’s fallen asleep reading again, the book laid across his face to protect his eyes from the afternoon light slithering in from behind his cracked curtains. Feyre smiles at him, and then she pounces.

“Wake up!” Feyre shouts loudly, taking the book off of his face and marking it with his bookmark. She learned very early on in the friendship that Rhys can be very touchy when he loses his spot in whatever book he’s reading, even if it’s the hundredth time he’s read it. “We’re going to dinner!”

Rhys jolts awake, violet eyes searching for the attack, only to find his girlfriend perched in his lap. He scowls at her, grabbing his pillow to cover his face.

“I was sleeping!” He shouts, words coming out muffled through the pillow. “You’ve got to stop doing this!”

Feyre laughs. It’s true; she wakes him up a lot. “Mor texted. She’s on her way. We’re going to meet everyone else at Sevenda’s.”

Rhys groans, “No.”

He loves to complain about going to dinner with his nosey family, but Feyre knows he really enjoys going to dinner with them. Rhys loves them. It’s only for show that he complains. Grumpy old man.

“C’mon!” Feyre tickles at Rhys’s side, making his body jerk in surprise. “Get up, old man! I’m hungry!”

Rhys huffs, “Don’t tickle me!”

Feyre continues to do just that, running her fingers down his sides and focusing on his waist where she’s learned Rhys is most sensitive to such an attack. The pillow comes off of his face, and he tries to scowl at her through his laughter. “Feyre! You evil woman! First, you wake a man during his sacred nap! Then you force him to dinner with his meddling family–”

“Poor baby High Lord,” Feyre taunts, pinching at his side. Rhys yelps. “He has a family that loves him and wants to see him!”

Feyre gasps when his long fingers wrap around her wrists. In a show of his superior strength, Rhys rolls their bodies over and pins his girlfriend to the bed. His violet eyes shine with emotions, but his voice is low and gravelly when he speaks, eyes dropping to her Feyre’s lips.

“And then you start a fight you can’t win,” he tells her. Feyre shivers at his tone, licking her lips. Her own eyes fall to his mouth, stomach pooling with warmth.

Feyre doesn’t know who moves first, but one second they’re watching another and the next, Rhys’s hands are in her hair, and Feyre’s freed fingers are back at his sides. This time they slip underneath the fabric of his t-shirt and pull him close instead of tickle him. Rhys hisses at the feeling of her cold hands against his skin, but the scrape of her nails on his back has him groaning into their kiss.

They’re too busy to notice the slamming of their front door; Mor has a way of announcing herself sometimes. Her voice gets louder as she gets closer to them.

“Where are you, idiots?” And then, “Ugh! Gross! I need a spray bottle!”

◈

Dinner is good, and the company is excellent. Mor complains throughout most of the meal about walking in on Feyre and Rhys having sex. Rhys is quick to dismiss her claims, but Feyre blushes furiously at the accusations. She’s been thinking about that more lately, craving her boyfriend’s touch in more than simple affections. Feyre wants him; she always has, but now it’s under her skin, eating at her.

“I hope you’re thinking of me with that expression,” Rhys purrs low in her ear. He has his arm thrown around her shoulder, and Feyre’s leaned into his side, using him as a chair more than the booth they’ve curled into. Mor and Cassian are fighting over something, while Azriel and Amren compare notes on a project they’re working on together at work. None of the family notices their conversation.

Feyre releases her lip from her teeth. Yes, she definitely was. Her eyes shine with a taunting look when she says instead, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Rhys’s breath fans over her neck as he presses a hot, heavy kiss to the nape of her neck. She shivers, and he chuckles darkly, pleased with himself. “I have my ways of finding out.”

A splash of water flicks Feyre in the face, making her jump. Mor scowls at them, and Cassian wears his shit-eating grin. “Down, boy! We’re in public!”

Rhys growls at his cousin, “Morrigan, I’m going to fire you.”

“You can’t fire me,” Mor flips her golden hair over one shoulder. “You like leaving work early too much for that. Someone has to do your job for you.”

Feyre giggles because his cousin is right. Rhys’s sigh is long-suffering, “I meant I’m going to fire you from being my cousin.”

“You wish!” Morrigan crows. The table laughs.

◈

Rhys walks Feyre to her bedroom door when they get home because Rhys is cheesy. It makes her smile softly, and it earns her a kiss to the top of her head. Her boyfriend gives her a lazy smile, but when he leans down to kiss her, the fire from earlier returns.

Feyre arches into him for a long press of their lips. Rhys’s hands settle firmly on her waist, and her hands find his shoulders right away. Rhys breaks away from her, obviously to tell her goodnight, to keep from pushing her, ever the gentleman, but Feyre brings his mouth back to hers, swiping her tongue along his bottom lip.

Rhys forgets whatever he was going to say and focuses on kissing her instead. Feyre moans, tugging at the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, and Rhys angles their bodies in the hall so that she presses into the wall, bringing their chests that much closer.

Feyre draws his bottom lip into her mouth, scraping her teeth against it as she pulls away. Rhys chases her lips with his, and Feyre has to dodge his kiss to speak, “Rhys, would you–”

Feyre gasps as his tongue swipes along her neck. That feels good. Her eyes flutter as she makes herself ask the question she’s been thinking about all night, “Do you want to stay in my room tonight?”

Rhys’s pupils are blown wide when he leans back to look her in the eye. Feyre swallows; she is nervous.

“Do you want me to?” His voice is wrecked.

Feyre bites her lip, and Rhys’s eyes track the movement. “I did ask, didn’t I?”

◈

Rhys and Feyre stand in the center of her room, kissing for a long time. She’s the first to start the process of undressing them when it becomes clear to her that her boyfriend is letting her take the lead, decide how fast they move, how far they go. Feyre slides Rhys’s jacket off his shoulders as she kicks off her shoes. One of them bounces off the wall with a deadly thud, and they both break into giggles.

“See? Always banging things around,” Rhys tells her, sealing Feyre’s mouth with hers for another long kiss even though it’s messy with all the laughing they’re doing. When his thumbs brush the sides of her breasts, Feyre arches into his hands, craving more.

She works at the buttons of his shirt, while he pulls her hair out of the braid Feyre wears. One of his warm hands settles against the small of her back, just underneath her sweater; she wants to feel more of that, of his hands on her skin. Feyre steps back from him to tug her sweater off, and Rhys swallows. His eyes hardly leave her face.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her in the dark, helping Feyre remove his shirt.

She laughs, but the sound gives away her nerves. “You didn’t even look.”

“Don’t need to,” Rhys tells her between kisses, “I know.”

Wiggling out of her leggings is probably the least sexy thing that Feyre’s ever done in her life, but Rhys just chuckles and presses a kiss to her temple, helping her tug them off the rest of the way and narrowly dodging a kick to the face. The laughter that bursts from Rhys as he catches her ankle eases the nerves they’re both feeling. Rhys is grinning as he presses a kiss to her ankle.

Then Feyre finds herself in nothing but her underwear, Rhys hovering above her basically still dressed.

“Not fair,” she complains, tugging at his jeans. He laughs, starts to remove them. Feyre is there to help quickly, running her hands across his chest, sliding them up and into his hair. When she kisses his neck, Rhys groans her name. She likes the way it sounds.

“Rhys,” she breathes his name into his skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his throat, shoulders, and chest. When she takes him into her hands, Rhys buries his face into the crook of her neck, moaning her name in a way that makes her ache for more. She works him for a little bit longer, taking pleasure in his enjoyment.

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Rhys tells her, pulling her hands away gently, kissing her long and deep, and then Rhys sets about kissing her body. Feyre’s eyes flutter shut as Rhys kisses across her chest, removing her bra with expertise. He doesn’t spend long there, eagerly traveling south, across her abdomen and towards her core. A man on a mission.

Feyre’s seeing stars by the time Rhys lines himself up with her entrance. When he hesitates, Feyre opens her eyes and looks into his violet gaze. He smiles at her, brushes the hair out of her face, and waits.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, smiling. “I trust you.”

Rhys smiles at her, leaning in for another messy kiss. Feyre laughs a little, but she reaches for him, lining him up with her entrance and brushing him against her folds, taking the lead. Rhys breaks away from the kiss with a guttural noise, growling, “Wicked thing.”

“Impatient,” Feyre corrects him, urging Rhys to move with her legs. He chuckles, complying at last; Rhys holds her gaze the entire way.

“Oh, fuck,” Rhys swears, tucking his nose into her neck again. Feyre keens at the contact, fingers scrabbling across his back for purchase. She gasps his name. “ _Rhys_.”

It’s a lot. It’s not enough. She needs more, asks for it. Rhys breathes sweet, romantic words into her skin, kisses words like beautiful and amazing in her stretch marks and curves, traces constellations out of her freckles with his fingers. Feyre clings to him, lost in a sea of emotions and sensations, all of them Rhys.

When they tip over the edge, Rhys kisses her softly, vulnerably, and Feyre holds onto him while they tremble together.

“I love you,” Rhys whispers to her in the dark. “Feyre, I love you so much.”

Feyre presses her lips to his face, finds the tip of his nose in the dark. Rhys chuckles, adjusting them so that they can kiss properly, soft and sweet. With their foreheads pressed together, Feyre tells him just as softly, “I love you, too, Rhys.”

◈

“What’re you doing, Feyre?” Rhys asks, voice quiet.

It’s the middle of the night, so Feyre jumps in surprise at the sound of his voice. She got out of bed to find something to drink and got distracted by her cellphone. She smiles guiltily and holds up her phone, “I beat that level I couldn’t get past?”

Rhys rolls his eyes, “You have a problem. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I made tea,” Feyre holds up her cup. “I needed something to do while I waited for it.”

“Come back to bed,” Rhys tells her. His voice is exasperated, but his eyes are warm, fond.

Feyre doesn’t know what provokes her to be difficult. She smirks, drinking in the sight of her very naked boyfriend standing in their kitchen. She tells him, “Make me.”

Her boyfriend’s eyes turn heated, and Feyre shivers in delight. She loves that look on him. Rhys stalks towards her like a predator assessing its next victim. As he gets near, Feyre stands up from her stool at the kitchen island, backing away from him slowly to stay out of reach. Trouble shines in those violet eyes. She clutches at her tea mug, game forgotten.

Rhys cages her in against a counter, hands resting on either side of her hips. “Is that a challenge?”

His grin warns of trouble to come. Feyre tries to stop him, “Rhysand Velaris, don’t you dare spill my tea or–”

Rhys takes her by her waist, and Feyre just manages to set the cup down before her boyfriend grabs her, anticipating his moves. Rhys tosses her over his shoulder. Feyre squeals despite herself, laughing as he carries her back down the hallway.

“You brute!” She shouts, reaching to slap his bare ass. Rhys only laughs, a deep rumble she can feel through his chest. He tosses her onto the bed, starts to tickle her until she’s crying.

In the morning, they get a very strongly worded letter from Judy, the neighbor.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update! Sorry! My TOG fic, Noisy Neighbors, has kind of taken over my life.

**Feyre wakes up alone in bed.** It’s a little disappointing at first, but then the smell of bacon frying reaches her nose. It’s enough to coax her out of bed, shrugging on the first t-shirt she finds and padding out into the hall. 

Rhys has the news on loud enough that he doesn’t hear her coming. Feyre takes advantage of his distraction to watch him work. A towel thrown over his shoulder, Rhys flips the bacon over in the pan while he argues with the news anchor, complaining about “people these days.”

Feyre has to bite her lip to keep from laughing and giving herself away. She loves him so damn much. 

“No, you’re a dumb idea!” her roommate turned boyfriend yells at the television. Feyre doesn’t manage to act in time to suppress her snort at his antics. 

Rhys looks to the hallway in surprise. He smirks at the sight of her, lurking in the shadows in his shirt. Feyre’s grin is unabashed, eyebrows wiggling without shame. 

“Thank you for telling me how you really feel about me,” she teases him. 

Rhys rolls his eyes. Then his smile turns sinful. Feyre’s body reacts to that look immediately and without her permission. Her knees threaten to give out from beneath her. 

“I think I was very clear last night how I felt about you, Feyre Darling,” he purrs. 

Feyre smiles back. “I must not have been paying attention. Can you repeat it?”

Rhys growls at being outsmarted. He points at a seat at the dining table and orders her to take a seat. Feyre’s laugh is bright and happy as she complies; she can feel Rhys’s gaze burning her backside as she goes. She learned quickly how much he likes her in his clothes. 

—

After breakfast, they lay around on the couch, reading kisses and touches. Rhys is, unsurprisingly, something of a cuddle bug. Feyre always suspected so. He pouts when she rises from their next on the sofa, fingers grasping after her. “Where are you going?”

“To wash the dishes,” Feyre tells him. An old habit of hers, built into her from years of being the family caretaker. She doesn’t like to leave a mess long. 

“I’ll help.” Rhys is hot on her tail. Feyre wants to laugh at him, to tease him for stalking her around the house like a puppy, but she kind of adores it. She likes having him close. 

They fall into an easy rhythm, Rhys dries the dishes while Feyre scrubs them clean. The dishwasher is broken. It’s something that Rhys often complains about, but Feyre doesn’t mind all that much, really. She kind of likes to do them.

They nearly finished when a plate slips through Feyre’s fingers, dropping into the sink of water with a big splash and spraying both of them with soapy water. Rhys manages to take the brunt of the hit, water soaking his t-shirt and soap suds landing on his face.

“Shit! Sorry!” Feyre bursts into laughter at the sight of Rhys standing there gaping, bubbles on the tip of his nose. The sound dies in her throat when her boyfriend meets her eye, mischief shining in his own eyes. 

Rhys only smiles, wiping the bubbles off of his face and flicking them towards Feyre. She squeaks as they hit her face, quickly retaliating by dipping her hand in the water and spraying more water towards him.

Pandemonium ensues. The couple takes turns throwing soap and water at each other, Feyre squealing and Rhys laughing. She snatches the towel from his hands, using it to defend herself against him, smacking him lightly with it.

“Cheater!” he cries. Then his hand lands on the spray nozzle, and they both pause.

 _“Don’t you dare,”_ Feyre breathes when she realizes his plans.

She tries to outrun him, to escape the battleground of a kitchen, but Rhys is quicker than her. Stronger, too, Feyre is reminded as her boyfriend holds her prisoner, unleashing a torrent of water upon her—the both of them. Feyre screams bloody oaths as he soaks them both to the bone; Rhys laughs the whole time.

Eventually, Rhys releases her. Feyre spins around quickly to smack her boyfriend for the offense, but the sight of his delighted, smiling face softens her heart. Instead, she places her hands on her hips, shooting Rhys her best scowl. 

He just smiles. The look turns naughty quickly, eyes scanning her body and how the wet shirt Feyre wears clings to her every curve. Feyre continues to glare, but her pulse races just the same. 

“Feyre Darling,” he purrs her way. “You should definitely wear my shirts more often.”

-


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys asks Feyre to move in with him.

In the dark of the room, Feyre can’t see Rhys’s expression as they lay together, quiet and content and enjoying the late hour of the evening. She hums as his hand skates along her spine, bare as she snuggles up against him. The touch makes her shive, and Rhys laughs softly, his breath fanning the crown of her head.

When he shatters the quiet at last, his voice is conversational and soft, despite the topic at hand. “The lease on this place is up in June,” he says. “I was thinking of moving. Somewhere nicer.”

“Wow,” Feyre responds quickly, mirth lining her tone. As she speaks, his lips brush the skin of his shoulder. “You’re moving out on me. What a way to break the news, Rhys. Very gentle.”

He groans, letting his head falling back to his pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“The least you could do is give me more of a heads up,” she continues, biting her lip to hide her smile as she teases him. “June is two months away—less than that. I suppose I’ll have to see if Morrigan still wants a roommate…”

Rhys flicks her nose and interrupts her. It’s a testament to his skill that he’s able to find it in the dark. Feyre gasps at him before breaking into a giggle. Her laughter only grows when his fingers find her sides, tormenting her.

“You know, maybe I should let you go live with her,” Rhys muses aloud as he tickles her, grinning as she shrieks. “That way, the two of you can spend all of your time aggravating each other instead of me.”

“S-Stop,” Feyre gasps, tears pricking at her eyes. “I c-can’t breathe.”

“Serves you right,” he says, but Rhys slows his fingers anyway. Feyre gulps down air. “Here I am, asking my beautiful girlfriend to help me find an apartment to buy, and you just—”

“Buy?” Feyre interrupts. “You want to buy us an apartment?”

She can just barely make out his sheepish expression. Rhys ducks his head in embarrassment. “Yeah. Kind of? You’re always saying that that’s the only way to get something decent in this horrid city that’s stolen our hearts. I figured we could get something we both liked without the power outages and crappy landlords.”

Feyre smiles at his kindness, his thoughtfulness. “I always wanted a dog.”

Rhys meets her gaze, sharing her smile. “Now that’s an idea. Growing up, my father never let me have one. No matter how hard I begged,” he admits. “He said they were dirty, and I was too irresponsible.”

“Rhys,” she says softly, sitting up and brushing the hair from her boyfriend’s face. He rests his head in her hand, basking in their togetherness. She likes this side of Rhys best, the vulnerable man that Rhys always keeps hidden away.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” she asks him softly. Her move into this apartment was more out of necessity than anything at the time. Their group of friends refused to let her go back home to the apartment she shared with Tamlin. So, this place became her home. Her home with Rhys.

“And to get a dog,” Rhys says seriously. “Because that’s definitely a requirement now. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Feyre laughs. “And I am. I am very happy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts/requests are open! Find me on Tumblr @noodlecatposts
> 
> <3


End file.
